


Lost Together for a Little While

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: London Spy, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, Crossover, Dancing, Danny the outgoing romantic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Night Stands, One Shot, Pre-Alex/Danny, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock back in his bad habit days, What-If, non-canon timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 15:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5253182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if one night, years ago, a young, directionless Sherlock crossed paths with Danny at a club? Both might find a little escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Together for a Little While

**Author's Note:**

> I'm obsessing a bit about London Spy these days, and this just sort of happened...

The music is loud, reverberating through Sherlock’s chest in a primal beat. He slouches against the bar, watching the bodies grind and sway on the dance floor, the lights strobing, catching fleeting expressions of joy, frenzy, lust.

He’s still high, doesn’t even know why he’s loitering here. There was an argument with Mycroft, a handful of pills, an aimless walk along the river, a scuffle when some thug tried to steal his wallet. He caught a fist to the cheek, then possibly broke the thief’s arm out of pure reflex and barely suppressed rage. He slips his hand to his pocket, confirming again that his wallet is there.

He had ducked into the club to quickly inspect the cut on his cheek, then stayed for a drink. Whiskey. Its heat is slipping down his throat and into his veins, mixing with the other chemicals in a soothing way.

Bodies, pelvises moving in tandem, chests gleaming with sweat, couples slipping off into the dark. He watches from a distance, wondering what it would be like to be one of them. Normal.

He pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and shakes one out. He places it between his lips, pats his jacket for his lighter. He stops when a flame sparks to life in front of him. He glances over at a young man with thick dark hair, stubble, a sensitive mouth. The fingers holding the neon green plastic lighter are blunt, nails squared off.

Sherlock leans into the flame and inhales, holds the cigarette between his long fingers as the lighter goes out.

“You’re bleeding.” The stranger points to his own cheek, indicating where the wound is.

“I know,” Sherlock replies, taking in the shorter man’s tight-fitting blue t-shirt and leather jacket, faded jeans and trainers. He’s slender, several years younger than himself. His face is open and earnest. He’s truly concerned about his injury.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” Sherlock adds belatedly. His eyes go back to the dance floor, dismissing the man.

But he stays. “I haven’t seen you before,” the man starts again. “I’m here quite a bit… after work.”

Sherlock takes a drink, then fixes the man with a cold look. The stranger’s pupils are dilated. Just as high as he is. He still doesn’t leave.

“Um… I’m Danny,” the man says, thrusting out a hand awkwardly.

There’s nothing to do but shake it. Danny’s hand is warm, not entirely unpleasant. “Sherlock.”

Danny raises his eyebrows at the unusual name, but says nothing about it. He pulls out a cigarette for himself, lights it. “So… what do you do, then? For work?”

“I don’t. I’m stubbornly unemployed.” Sherlock doesn't mention he's contemplating plans to work as a consultant. “I am, however, a graduate-level chemist.”

“Oh,” Danny smiles nervously, exhales a stream of smoke. “I never was much for school.” He rubs his neck and glances away.

Sherlock predicts Danny will excuse himself as quickly as possible. The word “chemist” has a way of doing that.

“I don’t suppose…” Danny starts, then shrugs in a what-the-hell gesture, “you’d maybe want to dance?”

Sherlock blinks, caught off guard. His body says _yes-yes-yes,_ the _t_ _hump-thump-thump_ of the music driving through him. His brain is much more reluctant. _Shut up, brain._

The truth is, Sherlock loves to dance. He glances around. He’s anonymous here. Just another body. “Alright,” his mouth says.

Danny smiles, they crush out their cigarettes. Danny takes Sherlock gently by the wrist, pulling him to the dance floor. They meld into the crowd, find a space, circle one another without touching. Danny begins to move as if Sherlock is only partially there, dancing mostly for himself, head swaying, hands moving over and down his own chest and arms, eyes closed.

Sherlock gradually lets go, allowing the music fill him and drown out Mycroft’s biting words _(irresponsible, disappointing, childish behavior)_. He doesn’t care. He is in the moment, dancing, pretending to be just another face in the crowd. Not the freak. Not the one who never fits in anywhere.

It's hot, the club is packed. They gradually inch closer, pressed in by other couples and random dancers. Their eyes rarely meet, but their hips mirror each other, torsos nearing until Danny’s hand settles on Sherlock’s waist, keeping him within reach, guiding him to a shared rhythm.

Sherlock lets Danny draw him closer, lets the pulsating beat run through his blood, lets Danny look up at him sensually through those long, dark lashes. They’re moving in sync, Danny’s thigh between Sherlock’s legs, the entire dance floor seeming to throb in unison.

Danny reaches up and curves a palm around the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock meets Danny’s gaze full on, doesn’t resist when Danny pulls him down and lays his mouth experimentally on his.

 _This never happens. No one ever gets this close,_ Sherlock thinks hazily, finally letting his guard down. The kiss is warm, smokey, boozey, their upper lips salty with perspiration.

Danny’s leg is still nestled at his crotch, and Sherlock feels himself gyrating against it, growing hard. He doesn’t do this. It doesn’t happen to him. He knows people look at him from a distance, undress him with their eyes, but no one gets through his barriers.

Yet this Danny, with his simple, direct approach, has somehow succeeded.

Their lips slip apart, and Danny is smiling at him, his fingers working up Sherlock’s back.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Danny asks.

Sherlock nods.

They stumble out of the club, hail a cab, and Danny gives an address. They’re quiet, hands on thighs, eyes furtively scanning each other as the streetlights stream over them.

Soon they’ve stopped and Sherlock is pulling out bills, barely able to count, his nerves jangling like the keys in Danny’s hand as he opens the front door. The house is nearly dark, a lamp on somewhere, dirty dishes in the sink, the telly on in another room. Danny holds Sherlock's hand, leading him down a hallway to his bedroom.

They slip inside, unnoticed by housemates, and the door clicks shut. An unmade bed, clothes strewn about, light slanting through the window shade. Danny finds Sherlock's mouth again, their breathing turns heavy, hands roaming.

Sherlock finally pulls back. “I don’t --” he says, then stops. Don’t what? How does he explain he isn’t very experienced at this sort of thing, apart from one or two encounters? “I don’t usually do this,” he admits.

Danny strokes his arms. “It’s alright. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

Sherlock feels gratitude, a little more at ease. He’s not sure what he wants. He just knows he doesn’t want to leave yet.

“Wait here,” Danny pads softly away and soon returns with a damp flannel. He takes Sherlock’s hand again and leads him to the foot of the bed and has him sit.

“Let’s clean you up.” He stands between Sherlock’s knees, dabbing gently at his cheek, wiping away the faint streaks of blood. “There.”

Sherlock stares up at him, confounded by how young and puppy-like Danny can look one moment, then with a slight shift is angelically beautiful, another angle and he's rough and hungry. It intrigues him.

He puts his hands on Danny’s hips, holding him in place. Danny maintains his gaze, strokes his thumb along Sherlock's cheekbone.

“You're very kind,” Sherlock says with sincerity, unused to being taken care of. He’s hardly the nurturing type himself. He feels compelled to ask a pointed question. “Of all those men at the club, why choose me?”

Danny smiles, resumes the light caress across his cheek. “Because you looked lonely. Like you wanted to be part of what was happening but didn't quite know how to start.”

Sherlock feels a quiver in his stomach, wondering if he's that transparent to everyone. “You're also very perceptive,” he says slowly, falling under the trance of Danny’s light touches.

Danny shrugs, strokes his fingers near Sherlock's temple. “Intuition, I suppose.”

Sherlock hesitates, then blurts out a warning. “I'm not boyfriend material, you know. You're looking for someone long-term, and it isn't me.”

A pained look briefly crosses Danny’s face, but he tosses his head, shaking away the hair that had fallen across his eyes.

“It’s fine. We're probably too much alike, anyway. You're supposed to find your opposite, aren't you?” Danny smiles faintly. “But right now, we’re here. Both a bit… I dunno... lost.” He trails his fingertips down Sherlock's neck. “It'd be nice if you stayed... We could be lost together for a little while.”

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, realizing how starved for touch he is. How adrift he usually feels. How solid the bed and Danny's presence are. He makes a decision and suddenly tugs Danny down, their bodies colliding and spilling back onto the wrinkled sheets and springy mattress, their mouths and legs tangling.

Clothes are pushed and pulled and wrestled off, skin slides against skin, palms clasp the rounds of shoulders and asses, mouths skim and smear, teeth nip at necks and bottom lips, tongues slick over nipples, fingers curl eagerly around cocks.

Sherlock’s body is electric with want, all nervousness gone. The bed shifts, a drawer squeaks open, Danny rummages through the contents and returns with lube and a square packet. Sherlock makes room as Danny lies down beside him again.

“You sure?” Danny asks softly, dark eyes roaming over Sherlock’s face.

“Yes.”

Fingers tear foil, roll down, slick up. They relax into each other as much as the thrill of the unknown allows. Danny takes the lead, kissing Sherlock’s mouth, the base of his throat, a hand smoothing up his inner thigh. Sherlock shivers and gives in once again to the moment.

 _Thump-thump-thump,_ the headboard’s simple beat against the wall matches their racing pulses, slim hips thrusting, pale bodies dancing against the yielding mattress, pushing back the edges of the empty night.


End file.
